Destiny: Birthright
by Katsuhiro
Summary: A Destiny Story (which shall duly be re-located from the Halo Section once a Destiny Section exists - and yes, I have requested one). A story of beginnings. Of adventure. Of love and war and death and courage in the lands far and distant, beyond the reaches of the walls that keep us safe. A story of Destiny.
1. Prologue

_This was then._

The two man sat apart, as they always did, high up on the rocky outcrop just beyond the walls of The City.

The Wall Rose up behind them; sturdy, weather-worn and scarred in a thousand places. Robust and ever-dependable, it had stood for centuries, and would have to stand a thousand more. The alternative did not bear thinking about. The higher stretches of its surface were unscathed; modern and sleek by design; crenelated with defense towers and orbital cannon. It was the lowest stretches where energy scoring scabbed the steel skin, and bullet holes punctuated its fire-forged history - antique pockmarks from the last war.

Above The Wall, inscrutable and unknowing in the clouds high above, rose The Traveler.

Serene, opaque. Inscrutable and yet all knowing. The fading sun dazzled as it split against its smooth circumference, glinting over the harsher edges of its underside, where jagged cracks and deep fissures bit savagely into the mirror-smooth surface of the hovering planetoid; exposing the mottled girder work beneath.

The horizon fell away before them, scorched open scrub stretching far and falling away into tumbling forests, surging rivers and rolling foothills. Beyond rose jagged mountains, untouched by the ages. It was here where the mystery really began. The Twilight Gap: a hostile land, unknown and - for so many decades before - unknowable. Whole stretches of it were charred, clumped with broken and battered fortresses, and discarded starships, long since abandoned. Overgrown and forgotten, much of the wilds beyond were bursting with verdant wildlife. Lichen coated crumbling walls, and lonely nettles twisted their way through cracks in broken floor tiles. Nature had reclaimed the frontier long before mankind.

_This was then._

It was seldom, in these early times, that Guardians were allowed to travel beyond The City's boundary. There were too many risks, too many dangers unforeseen. Responsibilities too. Their business as Guardians was safeguarding The Wall, protecting those within. The Oath took precedence. Humanity had hid beneath the shadow of The Traveler for centuries, skulking beneath the meager shelter offered by the energy field enshrouding The City: rebuilding, regrouping. All the while its citizens had been tested; beset on all sides by enemies as numerous as they were ruthless.

Today that would change. These Guardians, and those that would surely come after, would be different.

The two companions had experienced war firsthand. Their armour spoke of it: a half-hundred battles, each more savage than the last. Cracked and pitted, scratch-scorched and dented. Guardians of The City were seldom long for this world, and only the toughest lived to see old age. Too stubborn to let death reach out and take them, the two companions had served for over twenty years; long enough to be named seasoned veterans by anyone's measure.

And yet the pride had never left them. Even with all the dints and scratch marks, the scrapes and bruises; even beneath the torn scrap-tatters of cloak which clung limply to their scarred battle plate, you could see a polished gleam; where the abused metal had been cleaned and polished, buffed to a mirror sheen.

They were Titans of The City, and they would be damned before they bowed their heads to anyone.

Titans. Tall and broad as they were, the name suited them. Even without his hulking armour and full-faced helm, Ederic Kael cut a heroic figure. Clear green eyes, a strong chin, high cheekbones and a mischievous twinkle in his eye that made him a popular sort with the women of the city. His lady killer squint, as he referred to it, grinning cheekily all the while.

Such vanity brought him no small amount of abuse from his companion, who appreciably dwarfed him in size.

Marcus Vardiker was haggard where Ederic was clean cut, balding where his slighter companion's hair was dark and full. His nose had been broken eight times too many, and when he smiled, it was the lop-sided grin of a man who wore his storied history on his face.

It had been a harsh tale to date. More than one tooth had been replaced with a silver stand-in. The left eye was discoloured; a subtle indication of its being a cyberthetic replacement. Where Ederic's armour was engraved with noble depictions of wolves and eagle motifs, to the point of ornate ostentation, Vardiker's was pragmatic, functional; as practical and war-weary as the flesh it housed.

The brute was talking again.

"So where do reckon we're going, then?" Vardiker asked again, rubbing at his jowls absently.

Ederic didn't answer. This was Vardiker's habit; to ponder and question. As curious as a goat, and twice as ugly, the womenfolk said. Stronger than an oxen and twice as reliable, Vardiker often retorted. Ederic knew Vardiker didn't particularly care where they were going, nor why. To ask questions, and badger his friend - that was the game.

Ederic smiled patiently, choosing to humour him. Or perhaps settle his own nerves.

"Wherever our Lord needs us to go." Ederic galloped his fingers along the auto-rifle propped across his lap. "You know better than to ask such questions, Vardy."

"Not even a guess?"

"No."

"Not even a little one?"

"Not even the slightest hint of a guess, Vardy."

"It'd be nice to told for a change, is all I'm sayin'," Vardiker sniffed, glumly.

"Lord Draven is a Warlock. Warlocks, by their very definition, reserve the right to be enigmatic. You know this." Ederic shot him a mirthful grin, "Although you could always ask our friend over there, if you like?"

Vardiker offered him a sour scowl in return.

'Our friend over there' referred to their third companion, who waited further down the hill. He stood apart, aloof; perched upon a small mound overlooking the descending valley. His long poncho fluttered in the breeze, though beyond that there was no movement out of him. The man's posture was statuesque.

This was hardly surprising. For Mettek was no man at all.

Mettek was Exo. Machine Kin, bounty hunter and war monger. All steel circuits and soft-servos where his fellows were flesh and bone. Instead of eyes, Mettek had twinned targeting lenses, which burned with a ice cold sentience. Four years the Exo had accompanied their employer's war band. To this day, Ederic knew little and less of the machine warrior's origins.

Ederic had pieced together what little he could. It was the little details that gave it away. Bandoliers, pouches and overlapping weapons holsters; they festooned the bounty hunter, trophies all. His armour in particular made him a curious sight. Or rather, the layers of it. Some of it was new, recently won in the markets or traded in simple barter with passing traders. Much of it was ragged, with new layers simply strapped slap-shod over the more bullet chewed armour beneath. The Exo smelled of two things: leather and gun oil. He exuded raw efficiency.

Some said the origins of Mettek's armour were of a less savoury nature. That he looted it from the bodies of his fallen enemies. Even with all of his Titan training, Ederic wasn't prepared to ask.

The Exo's presence bothered the Titan though, and it wasn't for the machine's characteristic brooding silence. No, his inclusion was an unspoken indication of the severity of their mission. Ederic Kael and Marcus Vardiker were typically muscle-enough for any fire team. Mettek's inclusion outright stated that things would invariably get violent, and that - in return - more than the usual level of violence would be required.

And then others began to arrive.

They emerged from the shadows of The Wall, coming two or three at a time. Journeyman warlocks, gunslingers, trackers and pathfinders; mercenaries all. The Two Titans rose to their feet, clamping on their helmets and receiving each of the adventurers in turn with a wary nod. Some responded, many others did not. Few wore tabbards or branding of any clear faction affiliation. Most of them were strangers; each of them dangerous. None of them were FOTC.

Mercenaries then. Soldiers of fortune, guns for hire.

And yet there were some he recognised. Reputations preceded them, for the most part. There was Lila, the Awoken ranger; as glacially calm as she was beautiful. She offered a brief bow of her head, then stood off to one side, near Mettek. Then Torvaal the Huntsman; his only good eye hidden beneath a mirrored targeting monocle. A high powered rifle was slung across his back. Chalk marks along the stock denoted kills. There was notoriously little clear space on the gun.

Next came Antelio Vornas, the notorious dicer and gambler. Sleek limbed and cocksure, particularly dangerous with a knife. The Forces of the City had linked more than a half dozen misdemeanors to Vornas, and yet - as smooth as he was - so little of it seemed to stick. His eyes flicked between the two Titans, noting the faded FOTC markings on their shoulder pauldrons. He sniffed, spat on the ground, and sauntered past. One hand stroked his elaborately maintained goatee. The other obsessively flipped a Glimmer chit from finger to finger.

Fifteen souls, all told. No less than five complete fire teams.

Now it was Ederic's turn to be curious. The others sensed it too. There was a hum in the air amongst those gathered, a murmured excitement of nervous energy.

When Imperious Draven did arrive, it was without ceremony or fanfare. He simply appeared amongst them, as suddenly and as immediately as though he'd been there all along, and yet Ederic had counted each person as they arrived.

Draven was remarkably different, even from the other warlocks gathered amongst them. The very air crackled around him; The Traveller's power draping itself as heavily as that heaving moment before a thunderstorm. As a man he was tall, and not unimpressive; approaching middle age and bareheaded, with a groomed beard that shadowed an aquiline face as proud and severe as his name. The Warlock regarded each of them in turn, expression grim.

The hired guns gathered in a loose semi-circle. Some men didn't need to beckon.

"Friends," Draven gave a brief bow of his head, "Your presence here does me much honour."

They shuffled in closer. The Warlock's gravely voice rose in volume as he continued.

"You'll have questions, I expect. Of why I have summoned you here. Of what it is I require that warrants so many of the very best I could ask for, be it through oath or through coin."

He regarded each of them in turn.

"It pains me that cannot tell you. At least, not yet." Draven blinked, an occurrence so rare it was unsettling to behold, "But I can assure you that there will be glory in it for those who stand at my side, in the days and weeks ahead."

"And enough Glimmer to make these little speeches worthwhile." That was Vornas, smiling liplessly.

"Your compensation will be more than adequate, Hunter." Draven tilted his chin upward as he fixed Vornas with a stare, draining from the gambler's cheeks. Eventually, Draven settled his gaze on the two Titans.

"Kael, Vardiker. A word."

They followed dutifully, armour clicking as they stepped away from the others. They stopped a short distance away, their soon to be comrades eyeing them suspiciously.

Draven kept his voice low.

"You two are the only ones here who represent The City; the only ones who have spoken the words of The Oath. You are here not simply for your skill at arms, but also because I trust you. I do not, I might add," Draven tilted his head back in the direction of Vornas, "…trust him."

"Respectfully, Sir, Vornas is a snake." Kael shook his head, "We can do without his like."

"He knows the lands beyond the Twilight Gap better than anyone, Ederic. His inclusion, while regrettable, is necessary. Keep an eye on him, please."

"As you command, Lord Draven," Kael bowed, as dutiful as ever.

That drew a mirthful smile from Draven.

"Am I a Lord now?" he chuckled to himself, before casting a glance over at the assembled war band. "I rather suppose I am."

He stepped past the two Titans, striding down into the centre of the clearing at the foot of the hill. The others followed, uncertain. Many exchanged wary glances.

In the distance, a swoop-winged transport soared into view. They saw it before they heard it; a snap-boom announcing itself as the heavens themselves seemed to split. A shadow fell across them, then a silver haze as pulse engines flared. Hands went up, shielding eyes. Visors polarised automatically, adjusting to the glare. Cloaks, coats and robes rippled in the vent-wash, snapping like unmanned sails. The landing ramp whirred open with gush of churning coolant. Landing gear settled down on the smooth earth of the clearing with an audible click.

Imperious Draven settled a golden, spherical helmet upon his head as he turned to face the assembled warriors. Back-lit by the flood lamps of the yawning landing hatch, long cloak billowing, Imperious Draven raised his voice to address them all.

"Destiny awaits us, Vanguard," his filtered voice boomed out over the hissing exhaust jets, "Shall we keep it waiting?"


	2. Chapter I: An Unwelcome Flyer

Time passed.

Days slipped into weeks, which folded seamlessly into years.

Time passed, and The City changed with it. The Wall grew taller, more robust. Communities grew more vibrant; planting their roots deeper and closer to the boundaries of The Wall; sprouting up under its shadow, spreading like some sentient mould. Factions rose to power, were toppled, and in turn replaced by their stronger rivals. The ranks of Guardians amongst the City's population swelled to levels hitherto unseen. Above it all, presiding with its perpetual glacial calm, rose The Traveller.

This was now.

Some adventures begin with crashing battles, with devastating tragedy and terrible loss. For Vander Kail, twenty years old and primed to take on the world, his tale began under somewhat more modest circumstances: he was sweeping a floor. Or rather, he was _supposed_ to be.

"Strike high!" an electronic voice shouted.

The broom snapped around, whistling through the air as it stabbed at the next holographic target. Lynx the training Ghost viffed up and to the side, its projectors beaming out another target, this one skirting along the floor of the store room.

"Right side, sweeping low."

Vander's hands moved smoothly, whirling the broom about as one would a quarter staff. Only in his mind, it wasn't a broom at all. To him, it was a spear, a glaive; slicing limbs and butchering those who would threaten the City. Its dust-choked bristles lanced another flashing target.

"Centre!"

Ruthless stab, centre mass. A twist on the blade to finish the kill. The target popped green to confirm clean strike.

"Another Fallen - behind you!"

Kail ducked to one side, addressed. He was breathing heavily now. Twenty minutes into the programme, and already runnels of sweat soaked his cotton undershirt through.

"Right side, two targets!"

Reverse spin, upward arc. _Steady hands, Vander; keep it simple, focus on the footwork. Whatever you do, don't go for the -_

"Five targets now! Turn and address!" the drone barked, then it shrilled, "Sidekick!"

Vander hesitated, his ankle half turned, poised precariously, overbalanced.

"Sidekick!" Lynx screeched.

Overbalanced, but he went for it anyway. In his mind's eye Vander knew what he wanted to do: a twirling sidestep, flourished with a powerful mule kick that would topple the first attacker and give him precious seconds of breathing room.

Only it was too much, far too quickly. His legs tangled in the broom, snagged, then tripped. Kail snarled as he crashed into one of the shelves. An avalanche of boxes - some cardboard and light, others steel decidedly not - clattered down on top of him. A white hot lance of pain shot up his elbow as he crashed to the floor.

Lynx hovered up over him, the Ghost cocking its head to one side in pious concern.

"I regret to inform you that you have been terminated, Master Kail."

Kail dug himself out of the avalanche of packing material, as he shot the drone a withering stare. The drone's running lights softened to a suitably admonished lilac.

"Have I caused offence, Young Vander?"

"'Sidekick!" Kail echoed scathingly "You and your sidekick!"

Kail pushed the mountain of boxes aside, and dusted himself off, still on his back. His elbow throbbed.

"It is a Level 4 training program, Vander. Titan combat techniques, the very ones you yourself requested. Side-kicks form part of the basic kata with fixed-blade weapons."

"How many Titans have you seen side kicking a Fallen? Or even using a 'fixed blade weapon', for that matter."

"- an _entry_ level training programme, Master Kail." The drone emphasised, before turning its attention to survey the wider devastation wrought by Kail's flailing. "Although I must admit your ability to demolish the quiet order of the store room is most impressive. The Cabal would be quite jealous."

Kail groaned as he sat up, then groaned once more when he realised Lynx was not wrong in his assessment.

Few of the packing crates had broken open, thankfully but the noise had been considerable. He looked guiltily toward the stairs leading up to the main area of his stepfather's shop. This was habitual more than practical: Old Gunrick was up at the market since early this morning, negotiating stall rental for the upcoming harvest market. Kail's guilt stemmed from knowing his aspirations on becoming a Titan were entirely inimical - in Gunrick's eyes - to what the old trader had in mind for his adopted son.

"Who's going to take over when I croak it, boy?" Gunrick would often crow, squinting at him with his one good eye, "Or worse still, when age relieves me of my senses, who will take care of me, eh? You, boy? Dead in some far away land, bones picked clean by whatever horrors the City sent you to fight on some lonely frontier - hah! Guardians? Stick around, kid, you'll certainly last longer."

Gunrick seldom sugar coated his opinion of would-be Guardians.

This is not to say that Kail chafed under him. Far from it, Gunrick had been good to Kail over the years. Vander's mother had passed away early in his life, a victim of a cruel ague that had ripped through outer, poorer sections of the city with all the relenting mercy of a rampaging wildfire. Old Man Gunrick, forty years of age and recently widowed in the same outbreak, had taken the young boy in aged five, raised him as his own. Gunrick was a stout man, barrel chested and - while powerful in the shoulders - well housed in a comfortable padding of flesh. His left eye was a cyberthetic that had taken poorly, and he kept it hidden beneath a simple eye patch, deeming the prosthetic "the single greatest waste of Glimmer I ever spent!".

They made for a curious pair, the old trader and his adopted son. Where Gunrick was now in his early sixties, and his wiry beard bristled more silver than brown, Vander Kail was young, clean-limbed; tall and well made. Every spit of his father, as Gunrick put it. Vander would follow Gunrick, assisting him diligently, if not entirely passionately, and Gunrick in turn would teach him commerce: the cut and thrust of negotiation, which traders to trust, and which offers to spurn.

Those who would threaten the diminutive trader physically took pause when they saw the tall Kail shadowing his adoptive father.

"You're Ederic's boy?" they would ask, nodding sagely, their metaphorical claws visibly retracting, "A good man. Terrible loss."

Vander Kail was a source of quiet pride to his adoptive father. "Good lad. Fastest runner I've ever seen, strong too." He'd boast, before proudly patting his ample stomach, "Gets it all from his father." This was often followed by a barked guffaw, chased by a swig of his drink.

Gunrick's Barter 'N Trade was a long-standing trade outlet that sat on a quiet street beneath the shadow of the Southern Rampart. A low rent district, ramshackle but safe, and not without its sense of pride. Like Gundrick, the people here were simple in their trade and humble in ambition; decent folk who lived long, if not particularly exciting lives.

The majority were tradesmen like Gunrick: smiths, tanners, bakers, grocers. Others still held more exciting jobs: weapon smiths, gun traders, iconographers, armourers and robotocists. This part of The City was known as South Shade, and as the name suggested its less than luxuriant economic status meant that there were more than a few rough characters who drifted through once in a while. Not the worst area, but not far removed from them either.

More often than not these rough characters paid a visit to Old Gunrick himself. The shop itself was nothing particularly special: a cramped trade store, its shelves lined with everything from leather holsters to backpacks and survival kits, knives and cloaks, both new and old. Buy for a Glimmer and sell for two, that was Gunrick's personal motto. Even so, his business was a reputable one: he only sold goods of certified quality, and it was this reputation that had ensured Gunrick's Barter 'N Trade had survived where dozens of other local businesses had not. Gunrick had a way about him, a certain manner. He knew who to treat with, and heard certain things in his travels; Gunrick knew truths before they were little more than rumours. He had discretion, and also a sense of decency. The Forces of the City eyed him with suspicion - not incorrectly, as Gunrick himself acknowledged himself as a born chancer - but knew him well enough not to look too closely. He had, after all, taken in the son of a fallen Titan, when no one else would.

It was forty minutes later when Kail had restored the storeroom to its rightful state of quiet order, showered, and then taken his station up at the front desk in anticipation of the first customer of the day. Not that he expected anyone, of course: any of their normal customers would be up at the local market, where Gunrick himself would be holding court.

True enough, it was fully two hours later when the doorbell tinged, and the door itself exploded inward. It was Kail's long time friend, Pausanius; Paus the Mouse, on account of his slight build, mousey brown hair and excitable nature. He was clutching a bright crimson flyer in his fist.

"Van!" Paus grinned, "What are you doing tomorrow morning?!"

"Good morning to you too, Pausanius." Kail smiled politely, "I expect I'll be fixing that doorframe, if our next customer decides to make as dynamic an entrance as you have."

"Sorry." Paus replied breathlessly, though in his excitement he clearly wasn't, "But check this out."

He slapped the flyer down on the wooden counter. Gunrick's influence on Kail took over.

"Paper?" Kail whistled, "That's rare."

"Not what it is, look what it says!"

Kail turned the flyer around so it was facing right side up. "A Sparrow Race."

"Not just a Sparrow Race, _the_ Sparrow Race of the southern sector. It's the Sparrmageddon 500."

"That's a silly name."

"The name be damned, check the prize!"

That drew a raised eyebrow out of Kail.

"Seems high."

"I know right! We'll be rich!"

"_Suspiciously_ high. As in too good to be true high."

Paus shook his head, "I asked around, it's totally legit."

Humouring him, Kail's eyes took in the rest of the flyer. The headline was the daft title, Sparmaggedon, with a Sparrow speeder bike (complete with rushing flames and prerequisite grinning skull motifs), together with an address and a date. No rules, no mercy, all entries final, the bullish by-line read and then beneath - conversely - all racers welcome. The cash prize was equivalent to what Gunrick's Barter 'N Trade would turn over in a full year.

"Paus, I'm not seeing any FOTC endorsements on this." Kail noted with concern.

"It's… well, it's not."

"Nor do I see an exact address. A locator input code, certainly, but nothing else."

"I think they value their secrecy."

"Ah, an illegal street race then. Fantastic."

"But look at the prize!" Paus insisted, stabbing the flyer with his finger.

"Oh I see the prize. I also see that we have only have an indicative date and time, in an ever-shifting location, organised by nebulous parties of undetermined origin, promising cash prizes far in excess of what they legally should be." Kail planted both his elbows on the counter as he leaned forward, catching Paus' eye.

"You know when things look too good to be true? Well this looks awful, and I don't just mean the daft title. Get this out of your head, Paus. It's bad news, period: if you sign up for this, you're a fool and no mistake."

Paus coughed and averted his eyes. Alarm bells started going off in the back of Kail's head. He'd seen that look before.

"Paus, is there something I should be worried about?"

"Well, it's about the race. I'm not as good a Sparrow jockey as you are."

Alarm bells rose from tingling to klaxons, blaring outright.

"And?"

"And it's a bit of a complication." Paus scratched the back of his neck nervously, "More of a technicality, really."

"What sort of technicality? Tell me you didn't sign up for this nonsense."

"Well that's just it…" Paus shifted uncomfortably, "I didn't sign up for the race…"

Eventually, Paus met Kail's open stare.

"… you did."


End file.
